


A Thousand Roads Lead Me to You

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1940's remix, Anti Season 8, Arranged Marriage, Arya in Essos, Biker!Daenerys, Daenerys Dayne, Dream of Spring, Drunk Dialing, Evil!Bran, F/M, Flash Fic, Fluff, Held Captive remix, Jon is a sweet puppy, Modern Westeros, Queensguard Jon, Rain, Season 8 shenanigans, Slice of Life, Spy!Daenerys, Spy!Jon, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Targling baby, Targlings (ASoIaF), Teenage!Jonerys, Westerosi Valentine's Day, Witch!Daenerys, a smidge of smut, fuck D&D, prompts from tumblr, some sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-08-25 19:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: A collection of flash fics from tumblr





	1. Stormborn

Stormborn

  **Prompt: " We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?"**

 

At birth, she had been given a name. _Stormborn_. At the time of her birth, with her mother bleeding her life away in childbed, a fierce storm rolled over Dragonstone. Ships shattered in the bay, thunder snapped the sky in twain, lightning burst across the sky in white hot fingers of light. The wind screamed through the keep, rain and hail battered at the castle until it felt as if the gods themselves had cursed the island to sink into the sea. With such a picturesque name—and the dearth of such things in a warmer, more temperate Essos—Daenerys was fascinated by thunderstorms.

So as the clouds darkened over Dragonstone, many years and trials after her first visit there, Daenerys Stormborn felt a kindling of excitement. She tabled the discussions of her small council, dismissed her guards, checked on her dragons—all three curled on a bluff asleep. Bruised clouds hung low and dark overhead. An ominous rumble of thunder growled in the distance. Daenerys stood on the sandy bluff and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of sea salt and the tang of rain on the air. The wind buffeted her, clean and fresh, running its ragged fingers through her braided hair. There was a breathless pause, an expectation. Lightning darted in jagged forks through the clouds . . .

“Shall we seek shelter, Your Grace?” Jon Snow said. Daenerys’ giddy mood evaporated. She found an appropriately remote expression for the King in the North who refused to bend the knee to her. He looked as dour and humorless as always, burdened by his purpose. How could such a handsome face look so miserable all the time?

“No. Seek shelter with a fire, my lord. I am quite all right,” she said in a tone that was coolly polite, but equally dismissive.

Rain began to patter down, first in spates and bursts, then in a cold, steady deluge. She watched the sheets of rain undulate in the hands of the wind, like laundry on a line. An unwilling smile crept across her face, she cupped her hands to watch the drops burst into her palm. A clap of thunder shook the sky, lighting danced in the clouds. Smothering a laugh, Daenerys tilted her head back to let the rain baptize her face. The cold was bracing, invigorating, the water sweet and clean. Daenerys opened her eyes, finding Jon Snow looming close. Rain slid down those clear-cut features, that supple mouth that haunted her dreams. His dark gaze was hot, direct. Heat began to pool within.

“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, a little breathless. Then for the first time, she saw a smile. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the grooves in his cheeks framing his mouth, the white even teeth, gods he was beautiful. This time the catch was in her chest, her heart.

“Then may I join you?”

Jon offered his hand with an extravagant bow. Daenerys giggled, folding her hand into the warmth of his as if they had done it a thousand times.

“Yes,” she said.   

 


	2. Tempation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries Eastern cuisine.

Temptation

 

Jon scowled down at the plate set before him. It smelled inoffensive enough: buttery and rich with a faint tang of a spice he couldn’t name, but Jon remained dubious. Jon poked it with the tine of his fork, it felt firm and crisp.

“You needn’t worry, my love. It’s quite dead. It won’t bite you back,” Daenerys said, smothering a grin. Daenerys plucked a fried locust from her plate and dipped it in spiced honey. She took a bite with evident relish, and as lovely a picture his wife made, the sight made his stomach turn. It was the insect’s tiny legs and glazed eyes staring at him that he found unpalatable. Jon set down his fork, leaning back onto the plush silken cushions, a cloud of floral perfume wafting up.

“I think I’ll manage without,” Jon said.

There was little about Essos that agreed with him. Too hot, too crowded, too noisy. The air sultry—so thick it was like trying to breathe through wet cotton. Pentos teemed with people babbling and shrieking in a dozen tongues. The city reeked of sweat, elephant dung, stagnant water, a myriad of perfumes and spices. Even now as the lamps glowed gold and moths fluttered, with a cool breeze teasing the gauzy curtains, Jon could hear the faint cry of strangers’ voices.

Besides the locusts—which he was told was a Meereenese delicacy—the table groaned with food. Plump slices of melon dripping sweetness, skewers with honeyed dovemeat, blue-veined cheeses, flatbread seasoned with saffron, a tangy paste made from chickpeas and seasoned with vinegar and pepper. Everything foreign and rich. Jon rubbed his stomach, longing for a simple kidney pie with peas and onions.

Daenerys eyed him through her lashes, a smile curving her ripe lips. On second thought, there was one thing about Essos he liked. The heat goaded Daenerys into wearing flimsy gowns and wraps. This one was his favorite. Near-sheer blue silk, with straps that crisscrossed over her torso, leaving a tantalizing window around her navel, the skirts cupping close to her hips. He was dazzled by the curves and hollows of her body, he longed to taste her sweat, nuzzle the patterns of her body hair. Jon forgot his hunger in the slow pound of arousal. Jon floundered closer to steal a kiss. Mmm, her mouth tasted of sweet dark wine. 

“I think I’ll sup on something else,” he rasped. Though her violet eyes watched him from beneath heavy lids, Daenerys nudged him away.

“No, Jon. You must eat. Much better than bread and gruel. Who knows? You might even like it.”

Jon heaved a beleaguered sigh, raking a hand through sweat-damp hair. Daenerys giggled, nuzzling the shell of his ear.

“If you try it, I’ll make it worth your while,” she purred. Jon growled, contemplating the fried locust with a baleful eye.

“Fine,” he said, plucking up the warm morsel. Before he could dither any longer, he stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, some of the tension eased. The flavor was almost nutty, rich and warm. The texture was a pleasant crunch. Jon washed it down with a gulp of Dany’s sweetwine.

“What do you think?” she asked. Jon grinned, rolling her beneath him on the cushions.

“I think I need to work up an appetite for more.”

 

 


	3. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queensguard!Jon kisses his mistress.

The Kiss

 

Her fists clenched in his hair. Fingernails a sharp prickle on his scalp. Soft thighs vised tight around his head. Snaring him in the sweetest of traps as he licked and sucked and thrust his tongue inside her cunt. The highest of the seven heavens existed between Daenerys Stormborn’s thighs. Slick and salt, sweet and musk, heat and lust . . .

“Gods, Snow!” she hissed. Jon groaned, his own arousal thundering through his body. Sweat streamed beneath his Queensguard armor, exacerbated by the accursed Meereenese heat. It didn’t matter. Her taste was water, her pleasure was life. Jon had already sworn his sword to her cause, to guard her life with his. It took perhaps a moon’s waxing and waning after swearing his oath for him to realize he had fallen hopelessly in love with the silver queen. A daughter of kings and dragonriders, liberator of slaves and Mother of Dragons, she was Fire and Blood to her enemies, and friend to her followers. Seven hells, to think she was naked as her nameday under that _tokar,_ a ridiculous Meereenese garment of violet silk fringed with pearl-white.   

Jon shoved her thighs wider on the narrow couch, feasting on the smooth sweetness of her flesh. Muscle bunched taut under his callus-roughened hands, thick, strong thighs capable of taming horse and dragon alike. The tie holding his hair snapped. Black curls spilled like ink over milk-white skin. He lashed her plump pearl with his tongue, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat. Her cries rose in a crescendo of pitch and volume.

“Jon!” The sound of his name on her lips—his true name, not ‘Snow,’ or ‘my northern knight’ or any of a dozen wry, teasing titles—made his vision flash white. His balls ached. Daenerys arched like a bow beneath him, riding the thrust of his tongue. Wild and greedy. So fucking beautiful it made his eyes burn. Like looking at the sun. With a squeal, she spasmed against his tongue. Fuck, _yes_ , flooded with juice. The heavy scent soaked his beard. Jon moaned, drinking her in, easing her through it with kisses and lazy licks.

“Jon,” she said again, her voice hoarse and wrecked. Swallowing down a whimper at being pulled away from her sweet cunt, Jon obeyed her tug at his hair. Daenerys muttered a filthy word in bastard Valyrian, dragging him up the dewy, trembling body for a kiss. Her mouth was as sweet as her cunt. Plump lips and a deft tongue tasting of sweetwine. _Yesyesyesmoremore please . . ._ Inwardly, Jon howled in frustrated agony that his armor blunted the sensation of her body.

Daenerys eased off with a series of languid pecks, drugging and slow. Jon’s hands fisted in the silk of her _tokar_ , the din of his love and lust and yearning almost deafening. He was quivering with it. One word of assent or rejection had the power to end him. Her hair glowing like silver wire in the midday light, eyes that rich indigo glow, full lips kiss-bruised curved in a sweet, shy smile . . . oh _Daenerys_.

“That has been building for quite a while, hmm?” she said at last.

“Aye,” Jon said, licking his lips. The taste of her on his lips sent a fresh wave of lust rushing through him. Daenerys laid one soft hand against his cheek.

“You best lock the door, Jon. This new development requires careful examination,” she said, the grin turning wicked. The surge of hope and relief was dizzying. Jon chuffed out a short laugh.

“Aye . . . and how long shall we ponder it?” he asked. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, her thumb restlessly caressing his beard.

“Forever?” she asked. The smile was so wide it stretched his cheek muscles.

“Forever.”      

 


	4. Look Upon Me and Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witch!Dany meets young Jon in the wolfswood

Look Upon Me and Tremble

 

The men of the North weren’t fanciful by nature. The Andalish to the south had their tales of grumpkins and snarks, their haunted castles and shades wandering the seven hells. The North, where the blood of the First Men ran deep, knew that the Children still lived. The old gods listened, though not in the way a man wished. Still, whispers around Winter Town spoke of a fortune teller, a witch, a seer who lived in the wolfswood. Uncle Benjen was due any day now to guide him to the Wall, and the brotherhood that awaited him. The questions burning in his gut would lurk unanswered if he didn’t act _now_.

Jon urged his mount west down the deer track that passed as a road through the wood. Hand clenched around his swordhilt, Jon dragged in shallow breaths through his nose. Night fell swiftly in the wood. Gauzy mist clung to mossy tree trunks, leafless branches rattling like bones in the wind. Ghost had slipped away sometime after noonday, and Jon hadn’t seen or sensed him since. Unfamiliar bird calls rang out, shrill and shrieking in the growing night. Sweat dewed on his brow, he squinted into the middle distance, finding the glow of a fire. Jon heeled his horse into a jerky trot. Branches whacked and scraped at him with thin, gnarled fingers, the scent of loam rose up fetid and moist beneath castle-shod hooves.

The fire-glow was in fact a bonfire laid in a clearing. A female voice sang in a slippery language Jon didn’t understand.

“Hello, the house! Is someone there?” Jon shouted, congratulating himself on the even tone. The singing stopped, and Jon almost mourned the loss of that smoky voice and haunting words.

“I am, though green boys should speak with respect,” a woman said, almost in his ear.

Jon and the horse both shied hard, skittering away. Jon reined his mount under control with a curse. Jon rankled at the insult, glaring at the woman. She was scarcely older than he, though striking. Mikken hadn’t told Jon that she was beautiful. Washed in golden firelight, Jon admired the flash of her eyes, the tilt of her chin, the sweet curve of her mouth. A mane of silver hair fell nearly to her waist, strands woven with ribbons. Blue tattoos curled sinuous as smoke up her bare arms. Despite the chill, she stood in a silken skirt belted at the waist, the leather vest barely covering the jut of her nipples. Heat shot through him and he averted his eyes quickly. She could hex his bollocks off if he displeased her.

“Who are you?” Jon asked, swinging down from his horse. The woman was a tiny thing. He could tuck her under his shirt.

“The witch you seek. Called Stormborn. And who are you, green summer boy?”

“Jon Snow.” Her head cocked like a bird’s. A smile curved her lips, mysterious and lovely.

“No, you’re not.” Jon scowled, fists curling at his sides.

“Do you name me a liar, milady?” he spat the words through clenched teeth. Stormborn’s smile showed even white teeth. Smooth and lovely, like the rest of her. The tales of her ghoulishness were greatly exaggerated. Murmuring a string of lilting words under her breath, the fire roared, rising twice their height at a gesture from her.

“No, Jon Snow. Let us see what the dragon bones will sing to you tonight.”     

 

 


	5. Codename Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> French Resistance fighter Dany meets MI6 operative Jon

Codename Phoenix

 

The blitz had devastated France. City and village alike in shattered ruins. Though Paris made a fine trophy for Hilter and his SS, the rest of France was shelled into oblivion. On assignment from British Intelligence, Jon Snow sought who the French Resistance called Codename Phoenix. Jon and Phoenix had traded letters for two long, war-torn years, cyphered and coded, of course. Jon had deciphered her signature after weeks of pouring over radio chatter. Cold and businesslike to begin with, Phoenix softened when Jon spoke of his own experience with the London blitz, losing his brothers when the underground flooded. She confided in him that the Nazis had killed her husband in front of her, sending her into a miscarriage. The letters became an outlet for both of them, sharing fears and hopes, coordinating plans and attacks. Love and vengeance.

Despite their correspondence, convincing the narrow-eyed brown-skinned lieutenant named Grey he was trustworthy had been a task. Gaining an audience even more so. Apparently bombing Nazi railways and poisoning SS officers’ beer took a great deal of planning.

Now, at last, in this moldering cellar amongst the remains of a pub, Jon was guided to where the Resistance leader waited. His Phoenix. Candlelight kissed her as a French musician sang mournfully of lost love. Jon drank in the curves of her, clad in a fitted white blouse and long skirt. Her hair was a short silver bob, exposing the tender nape of her neck. The map she contemplated was stamped with the Nazi eagle. Stolen plans detailing troop and supply movements. The map alone was a one-way ticket to the death camps in Poland, prolonged torture if the extent of her crimes was uncovered.

Jon cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the thought. His heart was lodged in his throat. He stifled the urge to tug at his collar. The room was sweltering. Or was it just being so close to her at last, breathing the same air? She turned and Jon was winded anew by the beauty of her. Gorgeous.

“Jon Snow,” she said with a small smile on red lips. Phoenix took a drag from her cigarette. White smoke curled from her mouth in a sinuous, beckoning tendril. Jon wanted to taste the tobacco on her mouth.

“Phoenix,” he said.

“Dany, please. Short for Daenerys. My parents had rather uppity taste,” she corrected with another conspiratorial smile.

“Dany,” Jon repeated, rolling the syllables around in his mouth. He liked it.

“Now I have a plan for the Maginot Line. I was wondering your take on it,” she said, tracing a red-painted fingernail along the map. Jon stepped close, steeling himself against the assault of her perfume. There was work to be done. 

 

 


	6. The Bonds of Matrimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King in the North allies with the Dragon Queen through marriage

Bonds of Matrimony

 

Their respective Hands had been quite proud of their arrangement. The King in the North wed to the Mother of Dragons? The marriage was unlike any Westeros had ever seen. _A bastard marrying a pariah_ , Jon thought to himself as Sansa fluttered about, adjusting his white wolfskin cloak, smoothing the silver embroidered cuffs of his tunic. The fearsome Daenerys would no doubt rather feed him to her dragons than consummate their union.

“Don’t look so glum, Jon. It’s your wedding day,” Sansa said, her nose wrinkling like Lady Stark’s when she was displeased with him, which was always.

“And were you overjoyed on your wedding day to Lord Tyrion?” Jon asked with an arched brow. Sansa’s expression fell. Her tight shrug made the heavy silver chain jingle around her neck.

“No, but he really was kind. And now he’s your bride’s Hand.”

“Smile. They say she is also very beautiful,” Arya said, crunching on an apple.

“Aye, but so is Cersei Lannister, and she’s a poisonous bitch,” he said, trying not fidget under their concentrated attention. The godswood awaited, with his bride: Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.

“How do I look?” Jon said, once Sansa finished tying his hair back with a leather thong, in a fashion like their late lord father’s. Sansa’s blue eyes raked over him, sharp with speculation. Arya joined her, eyes a lighter shade of grey than his own. Arya tilted her head to one side.

“From what Ser Davos has said about her, I think she’ll appreciate the effort,” Sansa said diplomatically. Arya snickered.

“Let’s find out,” Arya said.

A light snowfall dusted the crimson weirwood leaves, the long melancholy face of the tree watching him approach with gummy red eyes. Both Hands waited, along with his sisters, and Bran in his chair. Jon’s breath caught at the sight of her, his bride. The fitted gown of zigzagging white fur clung to her form, her silver hair in an intricate braided design. Snowflakes kissed her hair, her face, set with eyes like gemstones. Her remote expression made his belly leaden. _She loathes me already_. Her gloved hand folded into his own, her grip impassive.

The priest guided them in the rites of the wedding ceremony. The chill sank into his bones, his marrow. It was not a union of their choosing, wed before the destruction of the world, but despite his burdens, Jon could not imagine a greater burden than a wife who despised him. His palms were moist beneath his leather gloves.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Jon cupped her cheek with his free hand, drawing close to kiss her. Her lips were soft and so _warm_. How was she so warm in this winter? Jon moved toward her warmth, feeling her soften under the caress of his lips. Heat pooled and stirred at the sweetness of her response, the taste of her. The hot throb demanded _more_. A discreet cough broke through. Jon broke the kiss, opening his eyes to find his new wife smiling.                    

 

 


	7. Green-Eyed Jeyne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Held Captive remix where Jon and Dany are more vocal about their feelings.

Green-Eyed Jeyne

 

It was a simple, innocuous thing. One of her women, a noble Ghischari girl by the name of Zahnha mo Pahl, laid her hand on the arm of the norther captive. A simple thing, a sociable gesture, commonplace for one as garrulous and friendly as Zahnha. The kiss she and Jon shared after she and Drogon were attacked by sellswords yesterday was nothing. A passing madness. Still, the sight of it was an acid burn in her stomach, burned into her eyes like the afterimage of the sun’s glare. Her fingers curled around the goblet of sweetwine, the vined etching leaving an imprint in her hand.

“Zahnha, what are you doing?” Daenerys asked sharply in Valyrian.

Fire crackled and murmured in the tent brazier, filling the sudden, uncomfortable silence. The girl froze, clutching handfuls of Daenerys’ clothes. Bewildered brown eyes watched her face. Snow looked up from where he sat in his undertunic—Zahnha had offered to wash his gambeson—sharpening his Valyrian steel sword.

“N—Nothing, Your Grace! I’m simply gathering your clothes to be washed!” she said, in her charmingly accented Common.

“Leave me,” Daenerys snapped with a sharp gesture. A pang echoed in her breast as the girl scurried away, baffled and hurt, but after a horridly long day, pain and exhaustion wore down her equanimity. Snow’s sable gaze met hers unflinchingly, his full mouth pressed in a thin line. A memory flashed of his lips on her mouth, at the pulse of her neck. Hot hands smoothing over breasts and belly . . .

“Shall I leave you to your snit, Your Grace?” he asked. Jittery energy danced along her skin. Daenerys leapt to her feet, bristling.

“My _snit_? Mind your tongue, Snow!”

“The girl meant no harm,” Jon said, infuriatingly composed. Her ire climbed at being so transparent. Daenerys’ jaw worked. Snow set aside Longclaw and rose, grinning.

“She had no idea I’d been claimed.”

Daenerys maintained her scowling mien while inwardly she melted with girlish delight. _Claimed_ , aye, she liked the sound of that. Snow stalked toward her, focused and intent. Daenerys gave ground until he had her pinned against the table, braced between his caging arms. Her heart beat hard and swift, craving that hot, potent magic between them. Jon leaned close and Daenerys’ breath caught, hoping for a kiss. He hovered close, his dark eyes wide and hungry. So close she could feel the heat of him, breathe in the musky male smell of him.

“It’s true, you know. I’m yours, if you wish. What say you, Your Grace? Shall I claim you as well?”

“Yes,” she breathed before their lips met. 

    

 


	8. Lovely Vice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cop!Jon watches for Biker!Dany

Lovely Vice

 

Jon took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the bitter smoke fill his mouth, his lungs. It was a shit beat, patrolling the slums of Flea Bottom. Seedy bars, overcrowded restaurants, dilapidated gas stations, muggings and stabbings by the truckload. Smoke curled from his nostrils on the exhale and floated out of the cracked window.

“I’m freezing my balls off,” Tormund said, fiddling with the car heater. Jon chuckled. He was certain his partner, Tormund Wilde, was low-key mad. The burly ginger loved a good bloody fistfight, and flirted with prostitutes rather than arresting them for solicitation. _We all have our vices._

Jon flicked the collar of his coat up as an early autumn sleet came pelting down. His own vice was due around this time. Through the fogged window of his squad car, Jon peered through the haze of sleet to the gas station across the street.

It was a humid summer night when she’d first punched him in the face. He’d flashed his gold-and-whites as a tangle of men brawling. Big, burly guys in leather with long braids, shouting in Dothraki. Gleaming motorcycles leaned in a row. Tormund waded into the fray, bellowing like an enraged bear. Jon hurried after, shouting the few phrases in Dothraki he knew. A flash of a blond braid caught his eye. He turned and found a woman on a man’s back, hammering punches on the back of his head.

“Easy now, miss!” Jon said, seizing her around the waist.

“Hands _off_!” she said, swinging around and landing a wicked cross to his jaw. Pain and blood burst in his mouth. She was beautiful. Wide violet eyes, full pink lips, long blond hair.

Effusive apologies and several sworn statements later, he found she was Daenerys Targaryen. Formerly married to the famed biker/crimelord Kal Drogo. Leader of the biker gang Red Dragons, who in their spare time offered protection for victims of bullying and abuse when confronted with their abusers. The altercation began when her former Dothraki gang offered threats and insulting comments. Rakharo, her second in command, took umbrage at this. Ever since then, he’d taken the Flea Bottom beat. For which Tormund teased him mercilessly.

“Your girl is late, Snow,” Tormund said.

“She isn’t my girl,” Jon said. Tormund snorted.

“Tell her that. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Jon shifted uneasily. She wasn’t a criminal, per se, but the idea made him uncomfortable . . . singing awareness surged through him at the familiar roar of her bike.

“Shut up,” Jon said as Tormund snickered. Bundled up in black leathers, on her impressive black-and-red motorcycle, with that swagger that drew his eye to her plump arse, gods she struck a balance between drop dead sexy and heart meltingly cute.

“Not your girl, Snow?”

Jon couldn’t be sure.  

 

           


	9. Read Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Season 8 where Jon is caught leaving Daenerys' rooms

Read Between the Lines

 

“Why must you go?” Daenerys purred, planting a hot string of kisses along the back of his neck. Jon bit back a low sound of pleasure as he tied the laces of his trousers.

“We agreed not to . . .” Her tongue did something sinful to his ear. _Gods_! She was sore tempting him to drag her back to their rumpled bed. His cock twitched in his trousers, despite their excesses. Multiple times a night since sailing from Dragonstone. Including the week since arriving in Winterfell. Pure hedonistic delight. Basking in new love as the end of the world lumbered closer. It must be in his stars to suffer. How had he spent so many years without her?

“To . . . complicate things,” he finished breathlessly. Daenerys’ husky chuckle made him shudder.

“Forgive me, it’s just that . . .” she trailed off. Jon twisted in her embrace, tugging her flush with him. There was nothing more beautiful in the world than Daenerys Targaryen with her hair unspooled like moonspun silver, the plump breasts with tender pink nipples pert with cold, the ripe curves of her rump sprawled on a bed heaped with furs.

Sansa had cursorily offered Father and Lady Catelyn’s room when he was named King in the North. He’d respectfully declined, instead choosing Robb’s old room. When Daenerys rode north with him, and all her armies after her, it made for cramped quarters within Winterfell, as men and horses clustered close to survive the cold. Daenerys took his former room as it was warm and richly appointed. Jon shared a cramped chamber with his former Hand—on the rare occasion he didn’t creep to her chambers.     

“Hush, love. I understand,” Jon said, tilting his chin to capture her lips in a gentle kiss. When he pulled away, her twilight eyes were heavy-lidded and dark.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” Jon rasped.

“I find myself famished these days,” she drawled with a catlike smile.   

The smile carried him out the door and into the cold quiet of the hall.  

“Meeting with Her Grace, my lord?” Tyrion’s voice nearly made him jump like a scalded cat.

“Lord Tyrion . . . aye. Aye. Just a . . . a strategy session,” Jon said, clearing his throat. His sharp green eyes peered at him, a smile peeking beneath the sleek blond beard.

“A bit early for it,” he said. Jon knew it was, the sky still smooth black like the godswood pool.

“Aye,” Jon repeated, flushed.

“Jon? What are you doing about this early?” Arya said, melting from the shadows in her eerily quiet manner. Jon tugged at his collar, at a loss. A faint snicker reached his ears. Daenerys listening at the door and laughing at his expense. Despite the awkwardness, Jon felt a smile stretch his face. Gods, he was a fool for her.  

“I was speaking to Her Grace for a--”

“Early morning strategy session,” Tyrion finished with a droll tone. Arya’s dark brow arched.

“What this, now? Are we meeting petitioners in the halls now?” Davos asked cheerfully. And Jon couldn’t help but laugh.   

 


	10. Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy!Dany meets her mark, Jon

Conflict of Interest

There’s no honor amongst thieves, as the old saying goes. One could add government operatives to that list, regardless of which government. He was a gorgeous mark, for sure. Almost a pity she’d have to put a bullet in him. Westerosi foreign intelligence agencies preferred fanciful codenames, and her mark’s was no different: The White Wolf. So stark, so picturesque. Though given her blueblood heritage, hers was little better: Dragon Queen. Her assignment was to eliminate him in exchange for one million crowns. Simple. Nothing personal.

Her mistake had been meeting him. Preferably, the higher-ups wanted to gauge the amount of information he had before eliminating him. Interrogation was boring, and the decryption bug she preferred needed to be planted directly on his device. It was simple to bump into him at the hotel bar. A sly smile, a bright, tinkling laugh, and he was lured, a big fish chasing her wriggling bait. Sipping their nightcap in his hotel room, a discreet brush of her skirt against the laptop installed the malware.

The sex was fantastic, a nice bonus. Jon Snow had that thick head of black curls, perfect to tug as he lapped at her pussy, those sweet pouty lips, perfect to kiss and bite at. Thick meaty shoulders, perfect to cling to as he fucked her. Almost everything about him was perfect. The northern accent, the shy smile, that thick, glorious cock. Mm-mm. A pity to quench that beauty from the world.

It didn’t help to get sentimental about a mark, and that was all he was. A mark. A paycheck. A gorgeous, sweet, sex-god of a mark . . . Jon snuffled a little in his sleep, tugging her closer to him. Gods, did he just kiss her shoulder? _Fuck_. A guy this infinitely fuckable and sweeter than sin . . . she might just devise a way to smuggle him away to a safehouse--

“Dany?” his whisper was soft, but the gun barrel pressed to her back was not.

“What’s the price on my head up to, my Dragon Queen? One million?” he said with that sweet-sharp smile.

 


	11. Dynasty Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon take their baby to meet Drogon and Rhaegal

Dynasty Reborn

 

Still weak with loss of blood, sick at heart at the loss of Viserion (for the second godsdamned time), with bodies littering the ground and the snow still feet thick, Jon was adamant against Daenerys and the babe riding outside of Winterfell. Daenerys was equally adamant that they must. Their child was born of dragon’s blood, after all. The dragons were her kin. An unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object.

In the end, a compromise was reached. Daenerys summoned Drogon and Rhaegal, in that same mysterious way he always knew Ghost was near. Together they stood on the rampart of Winterfell’s wall, beneath the warming sun. It was a sight that still stole his breath, seeing those gods of fire wing through the blue sky.   

Jon hovered behind Daenerys. Since the day he’d met her, it seemed as if the air ten feet around her was charged, shimmering with her force of presence, making her seem larger than life. That glow was diminished now, a weaker flicker _. That she and the babe may live._ It had been a prayer he wove as he loved her in their bed, or whispered over her sleeping body, screamed as she fell from Drogon in that last terrible battle, or wept as she bled and bled after their babe came squalling into the world, bringing with her the dawn. Rhaella, Daughter of the Dawn. All that was precious to him in the world, their fair hair shining like silver in the sunlight. Rhaella’s was a soft dandelion puff from the furs wrapped around her. The dragons landed with a crash, their roars quieted to low humming.

“ _Iā zaldrīzes, ñuha jorrāelzi_ ,” Daenerys said, lifting Rhaella to Drogon’s snout. Despite himself, Jon gripped Longclaw so hard his hand cramped. Drogon could swallow her without an iota of effort.

“Peace, my love. They are all three my children,” Daenerys said with a weary smile. Her face was so pale it looked carved from snow. Jon nestled closer to her, kissing her forehead. Rhaegal and Drogon sniffed at Rhaella, their humming low and steady. Rhaella whimpered, and with incredible gentleness, Drogon touched his snout to their daughter’s forehead. Another beginning.    


	12. Stag Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany drunk dials Jon on the night of his stag party

Stag Night

 

“Godsdamn it, Theon! I just wanted a quiet night with good beer and my mates!” Jon said, knocking Theon back against the wall, gaudily decorated with gold streamers. The private room at his favorite local pub was packed with three times as many people as he wanted, friends sure, but mostly Theon’s friends. The smell of sweat and spilled beer filled the air. A redhead in a silver thong and pasties on her nipples gyrated to the delight of Theon’s brothers Rodrik and Maron. Theon wrenched out of his grip, straightening his immaculate suit coat. His grey eyes slitted, narrow with scorn.

“Don’t be a pussy, Snow! It’s just a stripper. A gorgeous one, I might add! I booked her weeks ago, for your stag night. One lap dance won’t kill you.”

“I. Don’t. Want. It.”

“Is Daenerys really keeping you on such a short leash? Are you sure about marrying her?” he said. Jon saw red, but breathed it down with some effort. Theon noticed his hands flexing at his sides and wisely shut up.

“If you say another word about my fiancée, I will grind you to paste, friend or no. Got it?” Jon spat the words through gritted teeth.

“Got it,” Theon said, slinking away like a dog with his tail between his legs. Jon heaved a deep sigh, raking his hand through his hair. His smartphone buzzed in his pocket. Daenerys’ beaming picture danced on the screen, brandishing his modest ring. He flicked the screen to answer.

“Hey, love,” Jon said. The din of pulsing music and giggling screeched through the speaker.

“Aw, shit!” Dany’s usually impeccable speech was noticeably slurred. Daenerys degenerated into a string of bad language in her native Valyrian, a trait Jon had always considered incredibly sexy. He liked the filth best when he was fucking her. Jon snickered. So Missandei had persuaded her to try to bar crawl option for her hen party.

“Love?” Jon said, leaning against the wall. A big, stupid smile stretched his face.

“Sssshh guys, it’s _Jon_! I _love_ him,” Daenerys said. Jon’s heart melted into a puddle. Gods, he was head over heels for this woman. And still falling.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to interru— _hic_ —interrupt your stag night.” Jon’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

“It’s ok. You made my night,” Jon said solemnly.

“Really? I love you so much!” she said, sounding almost near tears. Dany rarely drank with any considerable volume besides the occasional glass of wine after dinner. He forgot how uninhibited and affectionate she was when completely pissed.

“I love you too, Dany. Take care of yourself, sweetheart. I plan to have my favorite dessert later,” he purred. After their fifth date ended in a night of prolonged and enthusiastic oral sex, Jon referred to going down on her as his favorite dessert.

“Mmmm. Oh gods, that sounds _good_ , baby.” Just that husky whisper had him hardening in his jeans. Fuck. Damn inconvenient in public.

“Have fun with your friends. I’ll see you at home,” Jon said.

“Can’t wait,” she said before they ended the call. The stupid smile followed him back into the gaudy hell of Theon’s making. He had joy enough waiting for him at home.    


	13. To the Moon and Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Rhaella rides Drogon

To the Moon and Back

 

“Now, what are the rules?” Jon said, trying his best to scowl down at little Rhaella. The girl in question—now three—fidgeted under her father’s concentrated attention. Jon’s heart melted a little at the sight of her in miniature leathers and boots to mimic her mum.

“Listen to Mama and stay in the saddle,” she mumbled, twining her finger around the tail of her blond braid. The color was warmer than her mother’s moonspun silver, with notes of honey gold at the crown.

“Good,” Jon said, swinging her up in his arms. Reflexively, he kissed her cheek, earning a giggle at the tickle of his beard. Together they made their way down the steps to the bowl of the Dragonpit. Aegon’s High Hill was too crowded for Drogon to land.

“Are you excited?” he asked. 

“Yes!” Rhaella said, squirming in his grip, “where is Mama?”

Jon squinted into the guileless blue of a summer sky. Daenerys had taken both Drogon and Rhaegal hunting stray seals along the coast; she was insistent that the dragons must be full and malleable before they came anywhere near Rhaella. Jon pointed out there hadn’t been such precautions when _he’d_ met Drogon to which she replied that pesky Kings of the North should mind which cliffside they walk.  A speck of black appeared on the western horizon.

“There!” he said, pointing, “Can you see them?”  Rhaella squeaked and bounced in his arms.

“Yeah! Hello Mama! Hello Drogon!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. Jon chuckled, setting her on her feet.

“I don’t think they can hear you yet, love. Remember, don’t be scared of Drogon. He may look and sound scary, but he listens to me and Mama.”

“I _know_ , Papa. I’ve met him tons of times,” she said with her mother’s confidence. They watched as the black speck grew larger and larger. It never ceased to be a thrilling sight, a full-grown dragon on wing. Black scales gleaming in the sunlight, his roar of greeting making the stones quiver beneath their feet. Rhaella clapped her hands over her ears, all her excited chatter stifled. She clung to his leg as Drogon landed with a bone-jarring thud. She looked up at him with wide grey eyes. Jon snatched her up in a fierce hug. Gods, that look of absolute trust, that Papa would defend her against all the monsters in the world.

“Are you ready to fly, little dragon?” Daenerys asked, climbing down from Drogon’s back. Rhaella’s smile was like sunshine upon seeing her mother and with a parting kiss, she ran the last few steps to greet her.

“She’s a bit shy,” Jon said, following at a more sedate pace. Drogon turned his mighty horned head even with Daenerys and Rhaella, his low humming one of greeting. A ring of warm smoke enveloped them and Rhaella scratched Drogon’s scaled jaw. In a wink, her earlier enthusiasm returned. _Blood of the dragon,_ he thought. Jon watched as Daenerys settled their daughter in the saddle in front of her, tightening the leg strap across Rhaella’s waist.

“Now what do we say to fly?” Daenerys asked.

“Soves!”   


	14. A Friendly Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya makes her way to the Bay of Dragons

A Friendly Face

 

“Send the next one in,” Daenerys said, gesturing toward one of the Unsullied. She plucked at the limp hem of her crimson-and-gold tokar. The day was scorchingly hot and sweat pooled beneath her breasts and under her heavy braid. A glance to her left found Jon Snow standing at attention, in full steel plate as befit her Queensguard. She wouldn’t hear a word of complaint, despite the heat. Northerners were made of stern stuff.

A shuffle of footsteps announced the arrival of the latest supplicant. Missandei began the litany of her titles, as always, though this time in the Common Tongue. Unusual, as Valyrian was the most common language in this part of the world. Turned toward him, Daenerys watched the extraordinary change. Snow’s eyes flew wide, his entire body stiff like a wolf catching a scent. Daenerys swiveled to find a young woman with wide grey eyes and a short cap of brown hair, garbed in filthy leathers.

“Arya?” Even Snow’s voice trembled. In the year since he entered her service, Daenerys had never seen him so shaken. The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. A blur of movement and they tangled into a tearful embrace.  Daenerys shared a bewildered glance with Missandei. Despite herself, there was a pang beneath her breastbone. Love shone sweet and clear from their murmured words, their tearful looks. Though young, Snow clearly loved the young woman fiercely. After a moment, she cleared her throat tactfully.

“Snow, may I learn the name of our guest?” she said gently. Snow peeled back and chuckled, mussing the girl’s hair. The young woman beamed. Daenerys hid her puzzlement, though the joy in Snow’s face did something strange to her insides.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. This is Arya Stark, my sister.” Something loosened inside her chest. Sister? From the sparse, grim details she knew of Snow’s life, all the Starks had been killed save Sansa, who had been wed to Tyrion Lannister. Arya bowed with fluid grace.

“An honor to meet you, Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys braided her fingers together before her, a gesture to prevent unseemly fidgeting.

“Arya. Welcome to Meereen. I am Daenerys. How may I help you?” Upon closer inspection, Daenerys could see the resemblance. Long, solemn face, grey of eye and neat of frame.

“I came here from Braavos. I hoped to meet the Mother of Dragons and ask for your help.” Daenerys gestured.

“Forgive me, you are a guest and I haven’t offered refreshment. Come, we can speak in my chambers.”  

 

 


	15. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys tries to get her hot next door neighbor to visit

Oops

 

“Oops,” Daenerys said, admiring the wreckage left by the off-kilter shelf. Books in an unseemly pile, her dragon bookend on its head, her potted plant a forlorn heap of fronds. Potting soil and shards of her clay flowerpot were everywhere. A right proper mess. All because she hadn’t hung the shelf level. Oh dear. What was she to do? Her cat Drogon gave an irritated _muurph_ at the interruption to his nap and sauntered off to lay in the puddle of dying evening sunlight by the window.  

Daenerys allowed a wide smile. A part of her was ashamed by these juvenile antics, but another, larger part delighted in the game. Her neighbor in 4 D was just too delicious not to capitalize on every flirting opportunity. Jon Snow was more than just a hunky construction type too, when he worked they would talk meanderingly about cinema and literature. He first found her moving in and cursing the air blue as the door stuck—she had been juggling a heavy box and Drogon’s cat carrier at the time. That sexy smile that crinkled the corners of his charcoal grey eyes, that artful mess of black curls, gods—she was smitten. First, he fixed the door, then later the closet door off its runner, then a couple weeks later the leaky shower, then the sticking window . . . before she knew it, she began to crave Jon Snow’s company. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t fix it herself, she had a masters in mechanical engineering, after all. It was Jon she wanted.

Daenerys paused to judge her appearance. Silver hair blown out into soft ringlets, a touch of makeup (she mustn’t appear to be trying too hard), the ripped jean shorts and red t-shirt that showed off her considerable assets—perfect. Tonight was the night. Tonight, she would ask him to stay for dinner. Or go out? Would making him dinner send the wrong message? Daenerys exhaled a breath. _Start with the shelf. Test the waters, see if he’s interested._

She tiptoed on bare feet next door to Jon’s apartment. The charade was carefully orchestrated, Jon was usually off work by six. Now at six forty-three he was probably done showering and walking his dog Ghost. Was it stalkerish to study his habits? Yes. Was it pathetic? Also yes. Did she care? Gods, no. Daenerys knocked and waited, chewing on her lower lip. Butterflies fluttered in nauseating circles in her stomach. A shuffle of movement, the faint clatter of Ghost’s claws on the wood floor. The door chain rattled as he unlocked the door.

_Oh gods._

She’d caught him after his shower, all right. He stood in front of her toweling off his wet hair, his muscled chest bare. Her mouth went dry. Seven fucking hells, those pecs, his navel, that trail of hair disappearing at the waist of his jeans . . .

“Hey Dany. Sorry, I just got off work. What’s up?” he asked with his usual gentle smile. It took a moment to reengage her brain into working order.

“Um . . . I had a bit of a mishap with my bookshelf. Could you come take a look?”

“Of course. What happened this time?” he said, draping the towel over his shoulder and following her to her apartment. _Oh gods, am I in trouble._

 

 


	16. Oops Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon admires his sexy neighbor

Oops Part 2

 

The hiss of the shower roused Jon from his near-doze. A smile stretched his face. At first, Jon thought his incredibly hot neighbor in 4 E was a damsel in distress, in need of his masculine skills. The wide violet eyes and pouty mouth were enough to reinforce that opinion. It wasn’t until he glimpsed her diploma on the wall and later saw the well-stocked toolkit under the sink that it sunk in. Daenerys _wanted_ him to help her with fixing things. After he puzzled that out, he dithered. She was way out of his league. Gorgeous, incredibly smart. He had to read incessantly just to have something to talk about the next time she needed something fixed. Like a pining idiot, Jon savored those moments. Her bright laughter, the bite of her wit, the faint wafting of her perfume . . .  

Jon heard the crash of her bookshelf from his apartment, and enacted his own sneaky plan. If she really wanted something more, maybe he could entice her. Gods knew he was too chicken to ask her out. Imagine how awkward that would be if he misread her! They lived next door to each other; he saw her every day. The ploy worked though. Blushing, stammering and staring at him, Daenerys had gestured to the shelf. So damn cute. Jon had the shelf level again in seconds. The flash of disappointment gave him hope—and courage.

“I’m famished after all that hard work. Would you want to grab a bite with me?” Jon asked. From there, it was pizza and beer at a local dive. Conversation and flirtation flowed easily. One thing led to another, and here he was, watching the ceiling fan lazily turn. The sex had been as incredible as he’d imagined. Just the memory had him hard again. Maybe he should see if her shower was in proper working order . . .

 


	17. Temple Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany celebrate Westeros' version to Valentine's Day

Temple Day

 

It was fucking impossible choosing a gift. Jon cursed under his breath on the millionth lap around the mall, hoping for a glimmer of inspiration. Why some idiot bureaucrat decided to declare a random day in the middle of the second month as Temple Day for the Summer Islander celebration of love, he would never understand. Still, he did love Dany. Three months into their relationship, Jon knew in his bones he was going to marry this woman. They hadn’t said the ‘L’ word yet, and since Jon was hopeless at talking about his feelings, he hoped a gift would express what he couldn’t get out.

The mall was in full holiday spirit, with cartoony hearts festooned on every window, and more than one store offering teas and potions to ‘enflame the senses.’ To Jon, it sounded like an allergic reaction. He glanced at his phone and heaved a sigh. He had an hour before he was supposed to meet Dany for dinner. She was just finishing a preliminary deposition for a huge malpractice suit she was working on.

“What would she want?” he said aloud, scanning the floor map. A book? No, too boring. Lingerie? No, he wanted something romantic, sincere. Besides, if their sex life got any hotter, he’d have a stroke. Jewelry? Pretty, but impersonal. A framed picture? The idea appealed to him, but still didn’t feel quite right. A kiosk of flowers and champagne caught his eye. An idea unfurled in his mind.

An hour later, he heard the key turn in the door and the weary edge to her voice.

“Jon? What’s going on? We’re going to miss our res--” The sentence trailed off, and the approaching click of her heels said she found the path of rose petals. He straightened, combing his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

“Jon?” Daenerys nudged open the bedroom door. The look on her face was worth it. Rose petals, white, blue, and red were sprinkled on the bed, the room lit by soft bubbles of candlelight.

“I thought we could eat in tonight,” Jon said, gesturing to the bedside table. He’d traded the takeout boxes for bowls, the beers for stemware with champagne, but it was the spicy noodle place where they had had their first date.

“Oh Jon, this is perfect!” she said, her voice froggy with tears. Jon leaned into her passionate kiss. Temple Day wasn’t so bad after all.          

 

 

 


	18. White as Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Dayne travels north

White as Snow

 

At Starfall, even in the high fastness of the Red Mountains, Daenerys had never seen snow. Dornish did not do well with the cold, everyone knew that. So when Eddard Stark sent his raven requesting that Ashara Dayne’s only child visit Winterfell, it was cause for confusion. After her mother’s death, she and Cousin Edric were alone in Starfall.

“Maybe he wants to betroth you to his heir,” Ned said. The words lingered in her head during the long, long ride north. Her septa and guards nattered on about the possibility.

“Imagine that, milady!” Septa Raina said, “you would be wed to the Warden of the North. A lovely southern bride to a proud northern family.”  Daenerys nervously braided and unbraided her long silver hair as the carriage jostled along the kingsroad. She hadn’t had her moon blood yet, but at thirteen, the bust and hips of her gowns grew tighter.  Lord Eddard Stark had several sons, she recalled, even a bastard. The weather grew colder as they rode past the Neck, colder still as they arrived in Winterfell. The sky was leaden and grey, and Daenerys shivered. Both at the weather and the prospect of equally cold and hard people who lived there. Her sworn shield Ser Adam helped her from the carriage. The bailey bustled with people and Lord Stark stood beside his lady wife, their children arrayed beside them.

“My lady, welcome to Winterfell--” Lord Stark began. A shove knocked her to her knees. A blur of snow white fur. Daenerys was eye to eye with a large white wolf. Its tail wagged madly and then it pounced, licking her face, her hands, whatever it could reach. The ticklish rasp of its warm wet tongue on her face made her giggle.

“Seven hells, Ghost! Down, boy! Down, damn you!” a boy’s voice cracked over the words. The wolf gave her one last parting lick before moving off. Daenerys sat up, grinning and wiping slobber from her face. The boy was whipcord thin, his eyes dark and wide beneath a mop of black curls.

“Are you all right, milady?” he said, offering her a hand up. Daenerys felt the disapproving glare of her septa and mustered her manners.

“I am quite well, thank you. I hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic greeting,” she said. The boy’s bashful smile made her heart dance.            

 

 


	19. A Brother's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon spend a quiet moment on the way to Winterfell

A Brother’s Love

 

“What’s it like? Being close with your brothers?” Daenerys’ voice drew him from a half-doze. Her fingers combed his hair in slow hypnotic strokes, lulling him in the quiet after their lovemaking.

“Hmm?” he grunted, opening one eye. It was three days’ ride to Winterfell, and they lay nestled in a heap of furs in her tent. The wind beat at the cloth walls, but the brazier kept the tent cozy. She gleamed in the murky orange light, a shine of silver in her hair, the faint dew of sweat on her skin.

“My brother Rhaegar died before I was born, and Viserys was . . . cruel. I’ve never known what it’s like to be close to one’s kin.” The words broke his heart. Jon rose and kissed her, long and sweet. Her low hum of pleasure made arousal stir in his gut. Jon would be her family. He would protect her and love her for the rest of his days—however long that might be.

“It’s much like your relationship with Missandei, I think. Closeness. They know how you feel and how to comfort you without even saying what’s wrong. My brothers and I were tricksters. We liked to scare the girls. It was a bit different for me. I’m a bastard, and the shadow of that laid a pall over everything. I loved Robb, but I was jealous of him my whole life.” Daenerys nestled closer to him, breathing a string of kisses at the base of his throat.

“Love doesn’t care about things like that. I’m certain Robb and Rickon loved you for you,” she said. Jon’s throat closed. Even when offering meager comfort to her, Daenerys still found a way to make him love her even more.

“I love you,” he said. And after that, there was no more need for words.        


	20. So Help Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reels from a revelation from Dany during the War for the Dawn

So Help Me

 

Pregnant. Gods, it was a miracle. A miracle as the end of the world marched on them. Death and destruction, evil and winter. It made Jon feel half-mad with fear. Daenerys, the other half of him. So brilliant and beautiful it broke his heart to look at her. And now his child grew in her belly. Jon would never forget that soft wondering look when the maester told her, or the soft rain of tears she wept in his arms. Tears of joy, of shock. For so long she’d carried that pain of being cursed, barren.

If the northern lords didn’t know about he and Daenerys, they certainly did now. Jon couldn’t stand to be more than a few steps from her. The stairs in Winterfell were so steep and winding, what if she took a fall? Or worse, beyond the walls of Winterfell, when she rode her silver, or Drogon? Battle lumbered closer by the day, and Daenerys was too pivotal a force to sideline, no matter how much he might want to.

“Jon, must you?” Daenerys asked, as he folded her hand through his arm.

“The stairs are treacherous.” Her look of irritation softened into one of humor.

“I’ve faced worse foes,” she teased.

“I know. Your wrath is a sight to behold. I’m sure you have the Night King quivering in his boots.” Her violet eyes hardened in discs of amethyst.

“He’ll pay for what he did to Viserion,” she said. Jon squeezed her hand.

“Aye. He’ll pay. And our babe will be born in a world with dragons. I swear it.”         

 

 


	21. The Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany and their dream of spring

The Bells

 

The sonorous, mournful toll of the bells woke her from a restful sleep. Daenerys cracked open one eye to find the first spidery fingers of dawn creeping over the horizon.

“Why do they have to start so godsdamned early?” Jon’s sleep-rough voice said. Daenerys stretched luxuriously, reveling in the warm strength of his body behind her. The air was humid, but a freshening breeze from the sea teased the bed curtains. Daenerys rolled over on top of Jon, relishing the warm press of his naked skin against hers.

“It’s been five years of summer, my love. There is not a man, woman, or child in Westeros that does not remember the Long Night and shiver. Let them enjoy their revels,” she said. Jon combed wayward strands of her hair behind her ear. His smile was tender.

“They honor their queen,” he said.

“And their king,” she said, laying her hand over the healed scar on his neck. The battle with the Night King had nearly killed him. Even five years later, the skin still felt cold.

“We best get up. The little ones will be in the solar quick as--”

“Momma, Papa, wake up! The bells are ringing! It’s the _festival_!” Aemon’s strident voice echoed through the door. Dimly, she heard Lyanna’s excited babbling beyond the door. Daenerys giggled. A festival under a summer sun with her family was all she could wish for.     

 

 


	22. Throne of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes his way to King's Landing decades after the events of Season 8

Throne of Lies

 

The city hadn’t improved much since he’d last seen it. All evidence of the Burning of King’s Landing had been washed away, but the city shrunk into itself. Haggard and creaking, like an old man. Much like Jon himself. The decades had not been kind. No peace could find him. Not in the wilds beyond the Wall, not among the black brothers of the Watch. Days haunted by guilt and nights spent sleepless with uneasy ghosts. _I killed the woman I loved._

Brandon the Broken, First of His Name did not rule a peaceful realm. Soon after his crowning, Dorne and the Iron Islands rose in rebellion, and won free after a long and bloody war. Edmure Tully was killed in battle, and the other kingdoms gobbled up his lands. Robin Arryn fell from his horse and died, and the Vale was consumed by civil war as the noble families fought for supremacy. Famine ravaged the North in the heart of winter and the now independent kingdom could not rely on the Reach’s fertile land for aid, despite Queen Sansa’s pleading. Plague and lawlessness followed. Rule of law held by the barest threads. All this Jon learned from monthly letters from Grandmaester Samwell, who often detailed his struggles in his new position. There was an irritating subtext that Jon could aid his brother the king in service instead of rotting on the Wall.

Jon reined up his garron at the gate the Red Keep. _Rotting at the Wall is all I deserve. Queenslayer and kinslayer. Oathbreaker and evil bastard._ The guards there bore the device of a weirwood tree with gaping red eyes on their breasts.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, ser,” one said, no older than thirty. The wary awe in the guard’s eyes irked him. Jon’s bones ached down to the marrow, from the long ride and the deeper burden that plagued him always. He felt so very old and weary.

“My mother and brother died in the Burning, ser. Thank you for what you did. You saved us from the Mad Queen.”

The words winded him like a blow. _Gods, Daenerys. That one moment destroyed everything you built. Now they know you as the Mad Queen. Not the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons._ Jon stared at the boy, hoping his cold loathing was plain on his face. There was none he hated more than himself.

“The king?” Jon croaked at last, peeling off his gloves and tucking them through his belt. Best face his brother at once. Neither sleep nor food would tempt him away. Not after the urgency of the summons.

“Of course, this way,” the other said, ushering him in.

The Red Keep fared little better than the rest of the city. Wind creaked through barren, dusty halls. The only ornamentation was the weirwood banners and raven sigils. The melted Iron Throne had been replaced with a plain square chair of polished iron wood, carved with the strange spiral designs of the Children. Seated upon it was the king, serene and unblinking as always. His head bowed, as if in prayer, his long black hair threaded with silver. _He looks old._ The thought was rueful. Near fifty, Jon felt stooped and wasted. His gut rebelled at being _here_ of all places. Gods, just there she had kissed him, held his face even as the knife--

“Bran?” Jon said softly. Bran lifted his head, his lean cheeks clean-shaven.

“Jon, thank you for coming.” That same colorless voice, flat and even.

“I was summoned,” Jon said, not bothering to temper the heat in his tone, “you could have killed Tormund, warging into him like you did. He was insensate for a week.” A fugitive amusement lit those bottomless eyes. Hadn’t they once been blue? Now they looked as dark as Asshai’i black amethysts.

“I needed to be sure you received my message,” he said. Jon exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils. What use was he to anyone?

“I did. And now I’m here. What do you want?”

“I need your help with something.”

“And no other man in the Seve— _Six_ Kingdoms can aid their king in this but me? What need have you of me? I’m an old man now.” Jon scaled the three steps to the throne, looking Bran eye to eye. _Old, broken, half-mad. I still talk to the woman I loved. The woman I killed in this very room._ Each one of his scars ached as if stabbed anew. Stabbed like he stabbed her oh gods, he _knew_ what it was to be stabbed and killed . . .

King Bran ignored his words, instead studying his face with his usual abstraction.

“I’ve watched you through the trees, through the ravens. Even beyond the Wall you were never happy. Never bedded a woman, never close with anyone but Ghost.”

“A sworn brother of the Night’s Watch can take no wife.” Jon hid the chill that went through him at the thought of Bran spying on him for years. An enigmatic, all-seeing eye. Bran steepled his long fingers.

“You still love her?”

“Yes.” The word fell from his lips with barely a thought. Tears burned in his eyes.

“Good. That’s good.” A deep, aching fury flared to life, the aged wheeze of an old dragon. How was it good? How did a single moment of his godsforsaken life have meaning?

“She fought it, you know. From the start.” Jon blinked, trying not to tremble at the _cold_ in those words. Nothing burned like the cold.

“What?” he said.

“Daenerys. She fought my grip for quite a long time. Targaryen blood runs a bit hotter than I’m used to.” With sickening clarity, Jon felt the world shatter beneath his feet.

“You---you . . . how . . .” he stuttered, tears welling and falling from unblinking eyes. A knife-thin smile touched Bran’s lips. His eyes, oh gods, he knew that unholy blue glow.

“It took some work, but she finally broke.”

“She wasn’t mad. You broke her,” Jon said.

“You burned our forests. Slew us by the thousands. It was what you deserved. All of you.” It wasn’t Bran’s voice but a multitude, old and dry, young and sweet. The dagger was in his hand.

This time, it felt right.

It felt _good_.

Parting flesh and bone to pierce that black, empty heart. Bran gasped, jerking in his chair. The bloody smile chilled Jon to his marrow.

“Thank you, Jon.”       

                     

 


	23. Nerve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queensguard!Jon admires Dany in Essosi fashion

Nerve

 

After enslavement, there were few things Jon considered a hardship. Certainly not his duty as Queensguard to Daenerys Targaryen. Her quest to free the slaves trapped in Slaver’s Bay was a noble and just thing. The queen even insisted on her guard wearing armor in the style of the Unsullied—leathern breastplates, gauntlets and trousers over sandsilk smallclothes. The heat was unmerciful, even in the heights of Meereen’s pyramids. No, the only hardship was the queen herself.

 

Jon Snow’s deepest secret was that he was in love with her.

 

Not like with Ygritte, a young giddy love tinged with sadness. No, this love was rooted deep. At first, he thought it was mere gratitude for her freeing him, or admiration for her mettle and wit. It wasn’t until the Sons of the Harpy had tried in earnest to kill her—only to be stopped by Longclaw shoved through their throats—that he really knew. In that horrid moment, Jon Snow had contemplated a world without her in it, and that moment was the deepest of the seven hells for him. It was a comfort to himself that no one knew of his affliction—least of all the queen. How the faintest whiff of her scent—like smoke and rose oil—was enough to bring his nerves to painful awareness. How the faint music of her accented voice soothed him. Or how he grew intensely, painfully aroused at the sight of her in Meereen’s latest fashions.

Today’s iteration was by far the worst. _In what realm is that called a gown?_ Sandsilk in deep blue formed straps from her shoulders, crisscrossing her torso, leaving tantalizing windows of naked flesh. Gods, he could see the curve of her rib cage, the valley between her breasts, her navel. He wanted to kiss that skin and see it was as soft as it looked, nuzzle her navel and breathe her in— _fuck_! Jon tore his gaze away, steeling every nerve he had and trying to breathe down his arousal. Sometimes the temptation to kneel at her feet and beg to pleasure her was almost too much.

“Shall we go, Snow?” Daenerys asked, lifting her gaze from the map on the table to look at him. Her faint smile faded.

“Are you well, Snow? You look . . . feverish.” Jon bobbed his head in a frantic nod. _Please don’t come any closer!_ The leathers hid his affliction, but having her so close was another sweet torture in itself.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m fine,” he said. Daenerys ignored him, invading his space. There it was, her smell, the phantom caress of her body’s heat. All those glorious details of her face in startling close proximity. There were flecks of gold in the violet of her eyes . . . Jon was so intent on staying still that the touch of her hand to his cheek made him flinch.

“I cannot lose any more good men to this heat, Snow. See the Graces if you are ill, please,” she said. Jon found a thin smile for her. Her gentle heart was another thing he loved about her.

“As you say, Your Grace.”         

 

 


	24. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon greet their grandchildren

Home

 

Daenerys watched the carriage meander through the streets of King’s Landing. Above it flew the familiar Targaryen dragon sigil, alongside the Martell’s pierced sun. Her son-by-law Trystane Martell, now Prince of Dorne, had sent his family north for a visit. It would have been a simple thing for Daenerys and Jon to fly south, but Rhaella insisted. _Neither of you are as young as you used to be. Allow us to come north for a season._ Jon had taken offense at the wording, but the cane he used betrayed just how the years had caught up with them.

“Stop your fretting, love. They’re in the city, surrounded by our own guard,” Jon said, not looking up from the book he was reading.

“It’s not that I fear for their safety. It’s been so long. What if Young Jon doesn’t remember me?”

At that, Jon did rise, and laboriously limped to her side. His black hair had long since faded to match hers. Each line on his face was dear and familiar to her. The smile he wore was gentle, as was his embrace. Daenerys relaxed into his arms, watching the carriage inch toward the Red Keep.

“You needn’t worry. Young Jon adores you, and I’m sure this new little one Elia will too. That is, if Rhaella hasn’t filled their heads with stories of the mighty Daenerys Stormborn.”  Daenerys’ answering laugh had a sharp edge to it.

Another torturous hour passed before the carriage at last arrived and they were ready to receive their daughter and her children. Daenerys hovered over the servants, fussing over the iced milk and tray of sweetmeats. Jon watched her with his usual imperturbable calm, though Daenerys could see the way he fidgeted with his cane that he was nervous too.

They both turned as the door opened. Rhaella’s smiling face brought a flood of tears to her eyes. It was always so strange to see her own features painted in Jon’s colors. Her black hair fell in messy curls down her back, her grey eyes swimming.

“Mother,” she whispered, flying into an embrace.

“Grandmother!” a piping voice echoed, followed by an impact around her shins. Tearful, Daenerys found her grandson Young Jon. She knelt and scooped him up in a hug.

“I’ve missed you, little Sunfyre,” she whispered into his silver hair.

“I’ve missed you too!”          

 


	25. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenage Jon and Dany filch some of his father's rum

Caught

 

“Sssh! You’re gonna get us caught!” Jon hissed. Daenerys clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Jon snagged another of his father’s bottles of rum, replacing the one they’d just polished off. It had been Daenerys’ idea to refill the bottle with tea. Rhaegar preferred fine wines and the occasional whiskey to something as simple as rum, so no one would be the wiser. Jon tiptoed out of the study—motioning for Daenerys to watch the creaking step. It was a simple thing to slip out the back door and hop over the fence to sit by the neighbor’s pool. Mist danced on the surface of the water, the half-moon serene overhead.

“Another flawless operation, Snow,” Daenerys said, snagging the rum bottle from Jon’s hand. The alcohol was a pleasant buzz in the back of her head, that sweet place where everything was funny and all their troubles seemed miles away. Jon’s smile was wide, his dark eyes slightly glazed. Gods, he was so handsome when he smiled like that. Usually all she could coax from him was a wry smirk.

Jon had been her best friend since primary school. It wasn’t until grade eleven last year that it really hit her.  It had moved well beyond a crush, way deeper than friendship: she loved him. Jon tugged her close into an awkward hug. She tried not to melt. He was always affectionate when he was completely pissed.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Jon said, eyeing her with naked affection. The moment stretched on, and Daenerys’ heart began to pound. Gods, why was he _looking_ at her like that? Jon craned his head to kiss her cheek as he had a million times before in greeting or parting. Except this time, deep in his cups, he missed. Mm, his lips against hers. Soft. Gentle. A faint hint of rum. _Magic_. Daenerys followed as he pulled away, savoring the contact. She dreaded opening her eyes and seeing the embarrassment on his face. She risked it. His face filled her vision, awash in moonlight.  

“Dany . . . I--”

“I liked it,” she interrupted. Grey eyes widened behind the lenses of his glasses.

“R—Really?”

“Yeah. Try again,” she whispered, tugging him closer by a handful of his shirt.   

 

 


End file.
